


Hic sunt dracones

by aryastark_valarmorghulis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, First War with Voldemort, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Makeup, Mirror Sex, POV Remus Lupin, RS Fix It Fest 2020, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis
Summary: Remus and Sirius try putting on makeup and end up trying a lot more: sex, kissing, and maybe even talking about feelings.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 71
Kudos: 368
Collections: RS Fix It Fest 2020





	Hic sunt dracones

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Maraudorable and Kattlupin for the advice and the beta work, to shessocold for the support and of course to the [RS Fix It](https://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/RS_Fix_It_Fest_2020) mods for running this fest!  
> Please check out two beautiful artworks inspired by this fic: [one](https://mlim8.tumblr.com/post/626797892066213888/hic-sunt-dracones-so-fell-in-love-with-this) by [mlim8](https://mlim8.tumblr.com/) and the [other](https://narrowredoubt.tumblr.com/post/644468187214364672/art-for-aryastark-valarmorghuliss-fic-hic-sunt) by [narrowredoubt](https://narrowredoubt.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Warnings: explicit sex between consenting adults.

“Do you have to sit there and watch me?” Remus grumbles, gliding the floss up and down, rubbing it against both sides of each tooth.

Sirius only shrugs in the pockmarked mirror above the sink, sprawled on the closed toilet lid with one knee bouncing – he’s wearing one of Remus’ frayed dressing gowns and apparently nothing else, judging by the way he's treating Remus with a glimpse of his bits between his restless, spread legs and too-short robe.

His socks have holes on each toe and his hair is untidy and messy, painting the true picture of having a frail grip on self-care during times of forced unemployment and budding war, and of losing any semblance of modesty after three months of living together. Not that he had much to begin with, always barging in and shattering Remus’ discretion into small pieces of shared intimacy: drunkenly collapsing on the same bed, sharing jumpers and fags and worried silences. They even shared a bloke Sirius picked up at a club once – not that they ever even hinted at that, after, and anyway Remus was only vicariously shagging Sirius through him.

“I’m bored, Moony!” he huffs, which is the customary Padfoot answer to any question these days, from _did you remember to pick up the milk_ to _could you Vanish the cigarette stubs from the ashtray_ , from _must you follow me into the bathroom, too_ to _please lower the volume when you have loud sex with people that aren’t me_. Not that Remus ever dared to say the latter out loud – _yet_ : his stoicism is tapering off, like every single person in the long string of Sirius’ nameless one night stands is casting a Shrinking Charm on it, revealing the core question that makes Remus’ guts ache: _why not me?_

Probably because Sirius watches him pee and brush his teeth and shave his armpits and grow a tail once a month, that’s why – he’s so used to seeing him that he doesn’t notice him. He’s only Moony, the most ordinary werewolf in the country.

Remus removes the floss and bends to throw it in the trash bin, then turns on the tap and reaches out for the soap – its holder is still placed above a small, blue purse at the edge of the sink. It’s dusty by now.

“Can you throw this out? It’s been here for, what? Two months?”

Sirius’ one night stands never come back for a second time, so the girl who forgot that purse isn’t likely to return and collect it.

“Why, what’s in there?” Sirius asks, voice flat and painfully bored.

Remus makes a huge show of rolling his eyes heavenward and shaking his head while he soaps up his hands. “Makeup, Padfoot – you really have no idea who left it here, do you?”

Mirror-Sirius doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish – he grins instead. “Could be the punk girl I met at the Red Cow, or Dorcas’ French cousin, or the guy I found in the toilets of–”

“ _Fine_ , can I toss it away?” grumbles Remus, hoping not to sound as pathetic as he feels. Why must Sirius always flaunt his conquests is a mystery – a more self-centred man would think the purpose is taunting him, but Remus reckons he brought this on himself when he agreed to live together, and now he must endure it. It’s a small price for having Sirius all by himself, and he’s learned to live with the bitter bite of jealousy for years by now.

Sirius perks up. “Toss it away? Makeup is hot – why don’t you try it and put it on?”

Remus blinks and shakes his head, used to Padfoot and his oddities.

“No, for real, put it on,” Sirius repeats. “I want to see how it looks on you.”

There’s an odd lack of playfulness in Sirius’ voice that compels Remus to turn so quickly the side of his neck hurts. He starts to massage it with his fingers. “Right,” he says, wary of where the conversation is veering.

“I mean it,” Sirius shrugs with nonchalance, like he’s suggesting to try corduroys instead of jeans. “It’s hot – try it. We don’t have much else to do, do we? Moody told us to shut ourselves at home until the Aurors question Rookwood–”

Remus only shakes his head and dries his hands on his bathrobe since they’re out of clean towels. Sirius does love to have fun at his expenses, he does it all the time. _Ask that girl out before I do, Moony. That guy is checking you out, go dance with him._

“Do you think it’s for girls?” Now Sirius’ voice has an edge, a dissonant note, like he’s challenging him to an argument. “Do you think it’s demeaning?”

“Oh, bugger off!” Remus turns again, arms crossed. “You _know_ I don’t think that, you wanker...”

“Then why not?” Sirius’ smile is hard and sharp and bright like a diamond.

Remus leans against the sink and regards him, sat on the toilet with his bollocks on display: what Sirius needs is a dressing down, not someone who complies every time because love mellows him.

“Because I’m not a tool for your amusement, that’s why,” Remus explains. “I’m not here to, to indulge all your whims and – I don’t know, entertain you for a split second until you get bored again–”

But Sirius cuts him off. “So it’s a pride thing? You don’t want to because it’s _me_ asking, but if it were a girlfriend or a boyfriend you’d do it?” He even stands up, a clear sign he’s invested enough in this argument to put a minimum of effort into it. At least his bits are covered now.

Remus adjusts the sash of his own bathrobe, feeling suddenly defenceless. “I – I’ve never even thought about it, I wouldn’t even know how to,”– he gestures vaguely – “apply all the stuff that’s in that bag...” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth; he hinted at a possibility, he showed a small crack in his resolve and, of course, Sirius grins, wide and confident. Remus groans and stares at the spot of mould in the wall next to the bathtub, but the truth is he has nothing against putting on makeup – it’s the risk of turning some harmless fun into a show of vulnerability that worries him.

“I can do it, I know how to,” Sirius promises. “Just for fun, Moony, to see how it looks on you and if you like it… lots of guys wear makeup in the club I go to, you know?”

“Not sure I want to know,” Remus says, flat, and then curses himself and bites at the inside of his cheek. Sirius always overshares and Remus always listens patiently – it’s part of an unspoken agreement between them – but even his patience has limits.

“Come on, let’s try it, it will be fun,” Sirius seems oblivious to his slip, voice reassuring and smooth and just the right side of infuriating.

“It will be fun for _you_ because you’ll make _me_ look stupid,” Remus grumbles.

“Nah, I won’t, Moony, I promise – and if I do, you’ll wash it off right away.”

Sirius is already at the sink, next to him, shuffling with the soap and the little blue purse, and Remus feels his already weak resolve fading away – why would he deny Sirius some innocuous fun? He’d hardly deny him anything at all.

“ _Fine,”_ he allows, “don’t stick some pencil in my eyes, at least.”

Sirius grins – a dog who just got his treat – and rummages into the little bag. Remus, sceptical, eyes the little square box that Sirius pulls out, but when Sirius says “Close your eyes,” he does. Sirius will probably draw a dick on his forehead and they’ll have a laugh afterwards.

It’s strange, though, standing with his eyes shut and Sirius so close, knowing he’s being watched – he can’t help but notice it’s some kind of reversal: usually it’s Remus who watches, stealthy as a pickpocket who learned the art of stealing glances as a kid, and Sirius who’s unaware of being observed with so much devotion.

Sirius’ fingertips graze his right cheek, warm and smooth, right under the eye, dabbing gently once, twice, and then to the left. “Alright, done?” Remus jokes.

“I’m just getting started, so don’t complain and don’t look,” Sirius warns him, and then his fingers are on Remus’ cheek again, stroking the skin with more purpose, almost like a caress, and Remus must fight to stay still and don’t lean into the gentle touch, don’t turn this silly game into a pathetic, delusional dream to replay in his mind next time Sirius will bring another stranger in their flat.

Hands vanish from his face and there’s a clinking sound – Remus takes a little peek, his eye just a slit, of Sirius uncapping a pencil, then closes his eye again. “Be still, I’m doing your eyes.”

Remus stills, but when something solid and pointy is skimming over his upper eyelid, he twitches. “Still, Moony.” Sirius cups his jaw with one hand and Remus melts and goes lax and floats in this moment; Sirius’ sighs are warm as a caress on his cheek, long hair is tickling his ear, and Remus can’t see but he knows he’s there, strong and broad and naked under the bathrobe. The light pressure on his eyelids is not bothersome anymore – he’d let Sirius paint his whole body if he wanted, just to keep him this close, just for one more minute.

“Need to finish the eyes, wait–”

Remus waits, eyes closed and relaxed, not sneaking a peek at himself in the mirror or at Sirius, because he’s basking in it, being a blank canvas so Sirius can paint him, a thread so he can spin him as much as he desires. And if he enjoys being a tool in Sirius’ hands, there’s no shame or surprise in it – who wouldn’t want to be, he asks himself.

This time there’s something soft, like a brush, being smudged near his eyelashes, but Sirius’ hand curls around his neck, and for a moment the world slows to a single heartbeat – his pulse under Sirius’ palm, an intake of breath, a thumb stilling on his cheekbone, his lips part but it’s not words they need – and then time speeds again.

Sirius withdraws, Remus opens his eyes. It was only a moment, the umpteenth in a long series of poignant moments dissipating into nothing – he blinks, his eyelashes sticky, at himself in the mirror. Sirius blinks back, but for once Remus is focused on himself. “I guess we finally found something you’re not good at,” he says, dryly.

The shimmery violet around his eyes is more livid than flattering, and anyway he doesn’t _think_ it’s supposed to reach the eyebrows, not without some kind of gradient effect. Sirius shrugs with nonchalance, but his hands fidget a bit with the purse. “It’s trickier than I thought, but you look nice. It’s a glam look? Er, decadent.”

_Glam my arse_ , Remus thinks, but he’s also suddenly glad there are already two ridiculously bright uneven spots high on his cheeks, even if he’s aware Sirius is only saying that in a clumsy, inexperienced attempt at being kind. He’s even shifting his weight, his mirror twin rocking a little, bumping shoulders with Remus.

“Do you want to try doing it to me, so you can have your revenge?” Sirius offers, gaze still fixed on mirror-Remus.

Revenge tastes sweet, but the chance of drinking in Sirius’ handsome face in one long drought is even sweeter. “Alright, bring that stool here and sit. Keep your eyes closed and don’t peek,” he warns, as he pulls out all the contents of the purse and lines them on the edge of the sink. Two pencils, one black and one blue, the square box he glimpsed before and a little palette with four coloured powdery pots – silver, green, dark blue, and the violet Sirius chose for him.

He has little to no idea of what he’s doing, but he remembers how striking Lily’s green eyes are when they’re lined with black, or Dorcas’ heavy, punk eyeliner. He thinks back fondly of his mum applying an almond blush on her cheeks. Better to start with little and then maybe add more, he decides, so he rubs the pad of his index finger into the silver pot – it compliments Sirius’ grey eyes – and turns to Sirius.

He is, obediently, sat on the stool, looking up expectantly, eyes closed, face upturned, and Remus longs to smear silver on the bow of his lips, just to touch his mouth, just once. He’s gifted with a face made to be carved in marble, put on display inside a museum next to an Apollo, perfect and unattainable, or a Dionysus, enigmatic and enticing, so that everyone who longs for beauty can quench their thirst.

“Stay still,” he whispers, his own swallow loud in the silence between them.

He brushes his pad on Sirius’ eyelids, careful on the papery skin, applying the powder little by little, careful of not putting too much.

He sighs and the corners of Sirius’ mouth twitch upwards like he knows Remus is admiring him – and Remus can’t help but wonder how it feels, to be handsome, to be desired, to be worshipped. He steps back a bit to exhale a breath and to check he didn’t make the eyes uneven, adding a little to the left one with a slightly trembling hand.

Then he uncaps the blue liner but the tip is flattened, so he switches to the black one.

“Stay very still now,” he murmurs and then leans in, so close he can count Sirius’ dark eyelashes and follow the bluish tapestry of veins under his smooth skin. His heart thumps in his throat and his hands are light as a feather, smudging, little by little, a thin black line just above the lashes of his right eye – the hard part is doing the same for the left one but he tries, tongue between his teeth. It’s a different kind of intimacy than balling socks and throwing them at Sirius’ head, there’s something honest and tender in closing eyes and trusting someone to paint your own face.

The blush is too pink and vivid, he reckons, for Sirius’ pale skin, and anyway he doesn’t know how to blend it without Sirius looking like he has two bright Christmas lights on his cheeks – like Remus does.

He allows himself a moment to contemplate Sirius, eyelids closed and glittering and lined with black, straight nose upturned and lips slightly parted – he’s a poor artist, ignorant of what to do with the beautiful model he’s got on his hands except watching which, regrettably, he's done enough of to store the image of Sirius sat still under his hands to replay it all night long in his room, alone in a dark cocoon of blankets.

“Alright, done, you can open your eyes now...”

Sirius jumps up to contemplate himself in the mirror, and Remus watches him watching himself – he looks stunning, even if the makeup is subtle and barely there – he should have added some black under the lower lashes.

“You’re a bit less heavy-handed than me, Moony,” Sirius chuckles, smile pleased if a tad embarrassed. “I look hot, like really, really hot – you should do my makeup next time I go to that club, and you should do yours, too. We haven’t been to a club together in ages...”

_It’s less than a month_. Remus shakes his head, embarrassed by his own clownish reflection next to Sirius’: he seems a hilarious mix between an eighteenth-century courtesan and a panda bear and Sirius looks like the edgy front-man of a cool band.

Remus shrugs, pretending to be disinterested, but Sirius bends to hook his chin on his shoulder and their eyes find each other’s in the mirror, so thinking clearly is suddenly complicated by the gentle but solid weight of Sirius’ body against Remus’ back.

Remus chews on his lips, eyes straying to the makeup tools lined on the sink – Sirius is often affectionate but there’s an unspoken message fizzling in the air, something that Remus can’t translate yet, so for once he just voices his thoughts.

“So I can have a go with your conquests after you’re done?” he says, after a beat.

Sirius crosses his arms on Remus’ chest, the black letters inked on his forearm peeking from the wide sleeve – _hic sunt dracones_ , it says, _here be dragons_ , here are dangerous and unexplored territories, and Remus wants nothing more than venture at his own peril.

For a second, he wavers between squirming out of his hold or leaning in. (He leans in.)

“It only happened once,” Sirius whispers in his ear. Lined with black, his starry eyes look brazen in the mirror. “And it’s so _like you_ , Remus, really, to act as if you weren’t into it.”

Remus holds his gaze, and tries to communicate with his eyes only, _I only wanted it because you suggested it._

Sirius smiles, his thumb stroking Remus’ collarbone. “I was so pissed off at you for casting a Silencing Charm on your room, that time,” he goes on. “I almost barged in, you know, to watch...”

A deafening silence. Remus knows it’s his last chance to withdraw from whatever fleeting whim is possessing Sirius, because in the morning Sirius would cook breakfast and say _t’was fun_ – admitting Remus can be entertaining enough – and then forget about it, just another thing best friends do, probably. But for Remus this is _it_ , the zenith of all his lovesick fantasies, Sirius finally bored enough to notice him.

“Then why didn’t you?” he asks, voice rough and unsure, because Sirius is brushing his lips on Remus’ neck and he must feel it in Remus’ pulse, how much he’s wanted.

“’was afraid you didn’t want me to,” Sirius whispers against his flushed skin.

Remus prick stirs. “I wanted you to–” Words spill from his lips and turn into a gasp.

Sirius presses him against the sink, one hand splayed on his collarbone, another grabbing his waist, nose in his shoulder, breathing him in, and Remus’ prick is so hard he must shut his eyes closed, the picture of his painted cheeks almost unbearable – he can’t watch all his love cravings plainly written on his face.

It’s quick and rough and Remus’ heart is on fire – they both tug at his bathrobe until it pools at their feet, shame and arousal at being exposed before Sirius warring inside him.

A strong, warm palm grips Remus’ waist and the other curls on his neck, not choking but there, resting over his pulse, and no matter how long he’s fantasized about it, he’s not prepared for this, he didn’t know sex could be this, he didn’t really know Sirius’ body – albeit he saw him naked plenty of times – could be so demanding, his chest solid and broad against his back.

Remus braces himself on the sink as the cool, magic slickness coats the inside of his thighs and if he could talk he would say it, _you can hurt me if you like, you can choke me, you can do to me all the weird things you don’t dare asking others_ , but he can’t talk – Sirius’ hard, hot prick pushes between his thighs and Remus squeezes his legs shut by instinct. His underwhelming experiences amount to fingering and eating out a girl, and sucking off a couple of blokes, and this is nothing like it. Sirius whispers all the things Remus longs to say to him but never dared to. _I’ve wanted you for so long, it’s never been like this before, please look at me._

Remus keeps his eyes closed and wanks himself below the sink and the groan ripped off his throat is a raw, pained sound he never remembers making – there’s chaos inside him, he needs to come and to last forever, but the lure is too powerful and Sirius’ fingers dig into his flank, just where the wolf bite is, possessive, and then he comes so hard he can’t tell pleasure from pain.

He sucks a breath and opens his eyes – Sirius is _staring_ at him in the mirror, eyes wide and transfixed and Remus for a split second freezes, he feels stared at on the inside, like his eyes were closed but his chest was wide open, heart on display, but then Sirius bends to bite at his neck and comes between his legs.

That was it then, he finally got what he wanted for so long, the crest of his pathetic life, and yet the first thing that crosses Remus’ mind as soon as their bodies part and he regains the ability to weave thoughts is that they didn’t even kiss.

“Right, thanks for that, Moony, er – can I take a bath first?” Sirius asks, a bit breathless, as he bends to pick up Remus’ discarded robe to clean himself between the legs.

Remus wonders if he really wants to live in a world where fucking your best friend who’s been in love with you for years can be dismissed with three words like _thanks for that_ but he replies: “Sure, go ahead.”

He grabs a few sheets of toilet paper to wipe the mess dripping down his thighs before he remembers that he doesn’t need to stay there a second longer and his wand is on the stack of old books he uses as a nightstand.

After a thorough Cleaning Charm that leaves his skin warm and tingly, he puts on his pyjama pants and an old shirt and sits on his bed with all the lights off except for the faint orange glow flickering from the hallway through the open door. He still has to go and wash his face to remove the makeup, but he can hear the hum of running water from the bathroom.

_Thanks for that,_ whatever _that_ is – something akin to theatre performance, them as the two actors wearing a mask and playing a script: the beauty and the beast, the charmer and the beguiled, their play only lasting a few moments. Now they’ve dropped their masks and Sirius is himself again and Remus is here staring at the dark walls, his heart poured out in the sink.

“Bathroom’s free, Moony!” Sirius says, and Remus has the fleeting glimpse of him, stark naked, passing by his open door.

He goes to wash himself, locking the door with his wand – which he never does, since Sirius usually sits on the stool next to the bathtub and reads aloud his crosswords while Remus bathes. This time he soaps himself quickly and scrubs efficiently, not indulging in any place where he's been touched and stroked and caressed – he must replay what happened later, when he's in bed, bit by bit, and consider it from every possible side: was it the makeup that made Remus suddenly desirable? Was it always bound to happen since they both like men and they're such close friends? Does Sirius _know_ and he just took pity and gave Remus a little sop?

The last possibility floods him with shame – probably he's reading too much into it, as usual, and it was only a bit of curiosity, laced with typical-Sirius boredom. After washing his face, his fingertips come away dirty and his eyes sting.

Remus rubs at them and drags his feet back to his room – but the lights are on. Sirius is under the quilt, sat with his back propped on the pillow, a circle of candles floating lazily mid-air.

"Do you mind if I sleep here?" he smiles and shrugs at the same time. Bugger all, even sheepish is an endearing look on him.

Remus stifles a sigh. Whatever happens, he'll always be Sirius' friend, that much is crystal clear in the stirring cauldron of feelings battling inside of him. 

"Nah, and anyway if I throw you out, you'll only come back as Padfoot and he smells, so no..." he manages a smile and climbs on the bed, where Sirius makes room for him. It's a narrow bed and their knees bump and Sirius' long hair will end up in Remus' face eventually, but it's nothing new, even after they fucked. Sirius sneaks into his bed all the time, and at least Sirius doesn’t think they’re _weird_ now – it’s a relief. They’re still Padfoot and Moony, at least, and they love each other, even if in different ways.

Remus slides under the covers, not bothering with the attempt of avoiding tangling their legs together or elbowing Sirius – they overcame this kind of embarrassed shuffling years ago. He waits for Sirius to Vanish the candles but he doesn't – and he doesn't lie down next to him, so Remus looks up.

Sirius is pensive, a crease between his eyebrows – _he's regretting it already, isn't he_. But then he speaks, his voice soft and his smile uncertain and it isn't what Remus expected at all. "That was intense."

_That's an understatement._ Remus nods, his cheeks heated. "Quite..."

"But did you like it?” Sirius presses, something like anticipation flitting in his eyes. “You didn't say a word..."

Remus huffs a little. So it all boils down to stroke Sirius' ego, after all, and he can't help a chuckle – for a second he was afraid he'd have to talk about _feelings_.

"Oh, sorry," he answers, dryly. "Thanks for that, then, Padfoot."

Sirius groans and looks away for a moment, allowing Remus the short-lived satisfaction of Sirius Black having the decency of looking embarrassed. "I don't know why the fuck I said that, Moony, you... you _broke_ me!" he whines. A beat of silence where Remus pretends _you broke me_ isn't flooding his bruised heart with misplaced hope. "I ruined it, didn't I? And I made it weird with the makeup thing. You're going to think – you wouldn't like to do it again, would you?"

Remus' prick twitches with interest. Bugger all, he should say no for his own sanity and yes for his lovesick heart, but above all Remus deserves a bottle of the finest Ogden's Old, or preferably a year’s supply, since _he_ must be the one reassuring Sirius that everything's fine and they can go on like nothing's happened. Or do it again and pretend it's nothing.

"So you can come up with a better post-coital comment?" he jokes.

Sirius laughs quietly, but he also shakes his head. "That, and also kiss you," he says, quietly.

They look at each other.

Sirius is focused on Remus as if there's something really worth looking at on his plain, familiar face, eyes twinkling with some unnamed emotion – and Remus _knows_ whatever Sirius is trying to tell him, he means it, and the offer is real, floating in the air between them, warm and enticing like the candles Sirius conjured. _You broke me_ , he said, but maybe Remus can put him together, too, so he leans in, places a shaking hand at the back of his neck and kisses him. It's short and sweet and clumsy and nothing like the sex they just had; Sirius trembles a bit against his chest and a helpless whimper brushing Remus' lips leaves him to believe maybe one can't live a whole life on a single fuck, but surely he can on this kiss.

They lie down and kiss some more, Sirius with his long hair fanned out on the pillow and Remus above him, basking in a cloud of bliss.

“So I wasn’t imagining it,” Sirius murmurs between kisses, hands mussing up Remus’ hair. “You fancy me like I fancy you…?”

Remus, for the first time in maybe his entire life, feels he inexplicably has an advantage on Sirius, like truly he could be the one breaking him and not only the other way, like Sirius is showing his other side, the one that isn’t always confident and self-assured and cocky.

During the day Sirius straightens himself up, but Remus loves him in the fragile hours of the night, when he’s vulnerable, when he wilts.

“I do,” he only replies, but it must be enough since Sirius’ smile is radiant and aglow with happiness. They kiss again, and it’s better than in Remus’ dreams even if he gets a mouthful of hair, their noses bump and a few kisses land on Sirius’ chin, because it’s real, and they know each other well enough that they can laugh about it.

“You'll always be my friend, right?” Sirius whispers into his hair later, after they extinguished the candles and lay on their sides, ready to sleep. “Even if I ruin this – _when_ I'll ruin this?”

Remus smiles in the dark – he really doesn’t want to think about things being ruined. Happiness is fragile enough without nicking it from the inside with their insecurities. “I'll always be your friend,” he swears. Drunk on love, he’s aware it’s a big promise but he can’t help being sure of it. “And you must do the same if I ruin it."

Sirius strokes his hair, places a kiss at the nape of his neck. "But you never ruin anything, Moony, you’re too good and kind…"

If even after years and years of witnessing first-hand that Remus can be, in fact, a real mess, Sirius holds him in such high esteem to believe him incapable of ruining anything, this must be love, the kind of dazzling young love poets write about.

Sirius' breath is steady and deep, his arm thrown over Remus’ chest pleasantly heavy. “Night,” Remus whispers. “I love you.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://aryastark-valarmorghulis.tumblr.com/)!


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